


Up in the Air

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: London, M/M, Sightseeing, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: He has never suspected Arthur of being a sightseer.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BakerStMel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStMel/gifts).



> This is my Secret Saito gift for BakerStMel, who prompted: London
> 
> Seeing I love London, the area in the fic especially, I was very happy to send Arthur and Eames there.
> 
> Hope you like it, and that I've captured London for you.
> 
> Happy holidays!

“I’ve been to London before, Eames!”

“But not with me. Why is that, darling? Why’ve we never worked together here?”

“I don’t know, Eames. Not enough contacts to give me jobs? You have too many enemies here? Too many exes?” Arthur sighs and reaches into the overhead locker for his laptop bag, joining the shuffling queue of people in the aisle. 

“How do you know my exes aren’t all dying to see me? A city full of fond memories?” Eames is close enough behind him to say this in an undertone.

“How would that make it any more appealing to me, Eames?” Arthur nods to the cabin attendant and strides down the airbridge, weaving between the the slower passengers still struggling to shake off the inertia of air travel, and leaving Eames to hurry to keep pace. 

Eames is waiting at the side of the baggage hall with his bag when Arthur finally emerges from passport control and heads to claim his own luggage — two suit bags and one rolling case.

Eames makes no comment, simply adds his bag to Arthur’s trolley and falls into step with him. “Have you booked us a nice hotel, darling?” he says.

“Of course,” says Arthur, “why would you want to stay anywhere else?”

Eames sighs. “Just making conversation, Arthur.”

“Yeah, well, I’m too tired,” says Arthur as they stand in the taxi queue.

Eames is silent as the cab navigates the dull outer reaches of London, slumped in the seat, eyes half closed. As they get closer to the centre, he perks up, and stealing a glance at Arthur, notices that he has too. 

“Oh look, Buckingham Palace!” Arthur says as they cross the Mall.

Eames hums, non-committal, but continues to watch Arthur as he all but leans out of the window while the semi-familiar sights of the grander part of London roll by. He has never suspected Arthur of being a sightseer. They’ve been on jobs in cities both small and large, dull and glamorous, and Eames has never seen Arthur so animated by buildings and statues. Except for Paris, he supposes, but their last job there had been so intense, no one had had any time for the sights. And before that, Naples had been in the middle of a rubbish strike and no one had felt like going out anywhere.

At last, they pull up at the hotel, which is, as Arthur promised, very nice. Their rooms are on the same floor. Arthur leaves him at his door, continuing down the hall, shoulders slumped with tiredness.

Eames tosses his bag into the wardrobe, takes off his belt and shoes and falls on the bed for a few hours’ sleep, but an idea is forming and when he wakes, he texts Arthur. “Want to go out?”

His phone is silent for so long he figures Arthur must still be asleep, but finally, it pings. “Where?”

“A walk, dinner?”

“Ok”, then, “let me shower”.

Eames gets in the shower too and is ready when Arthur knocks on his door 20 minutes later. He looks a little less tired. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, carrying a wool jacket. “Nowhere formal, okay?” he says. “I’m too tired for fancy.”

“Not too tired for a stroll, though, I hope?” says Eames. 

“No, I like walking. Where?”

“Surprise,” says Eames, hoping he has got this right. 

They leave the hotel and walk towards the nearest Tube station. 

“I thought we were walking?” says Arthur.

“Trust me?” says Eames, stepping onto a Northern line train, crowded at this time of the late afternoon.

“I guess,” says Arthur, frowning as he is jostled by a group of teenage boys. He doesn’t look at Eames as the train rattles along, instead studying the adverts overhead.

“Here we are,” says Eames as the train draws into Embankment. He leads the way up into the station and up the stairs to the bridge.

“Huh. This is new,” says Arthur as they step out over the river with the view outlined by the elegant bridge structure. Dusk is falling; lights are reflected in the water. The breeze is chilly and Arthur hunches into his jacket, taking a beanie from his pocket. He scowls at Eames as he pulls it on, low over his ears. Eames has to turn away to hide his delight.

“Great view,” says Arthur, taking out his phone to snap a picture downriver, St Paul’s on one side and the Shard on the other. This close to Christmas, lights have been threaded through the bare trees on the South Bank and the whole walkway sparkles. The bridge is crowded with people strolling, or hurrying to their theatre dates, stopping to take pictures or just to gaze out at London.

“Look the other way,” says Eames and Arthur turns to look over the railway, upriver towards the London Eye. “The view must be really great from up there!” he says.

“I’ve never been,” says Eames. “I haven’t lived in London since it was built.” 

“Can we go up?” says Arthur, now smiling with all his dimples out. 

Eames’ stomach flips over and he hopes for good luck. 

“Shall we go and see?” he says as they reach the end of the bridge. There’s a short queue at the big wheel. “I think you might need tickets ahead of time.” 

They reach the window and the woman there says: “Tickets?”

“We haven’t booked,” says Eames. “Any chance at all?” He smiles at her. 

“Let me see,” she says. “You’re in luck, love, some people haven’t turned up. That way.”

The capsule is full, it’s obviously a popular holiday treat. Once the wheel starts to move again and they begin to rise slowly, it’s easy to see why. The motion is smooth and the view gradually widens, spreading out beneath them, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben in the foreground.

“I love London,” says Arthur, not looking away from the view. “Ever since I saw _101 Dalmatians_ when I was a little kid.”

Eames is standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. “I loved that movie too,” he says, low, into Arthur’s ear, which is muffled by his woolen beanie. Arthur pulls the hat off, leaving his hair a ruffled mess. He pushes his hand through it.

“Where did you grow up, Eames?” he says. 

“Slough,” says Eames with a laugh, “You’ve never heard of it.”

“Of Despond?” says Arthur, looking over his shoulder, eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Some of the time.” Eames steps closer to his back. “Not always,” he says, reaching up to tame a stray curl behind Arthur’s ear.

Arthur leans back. Looking out at the lights, across the city to the horizon, apparently focused on the view, he presses his back to Eames’ chest. “I’m glad,” he says. “Me too. Sometimes. Not always.”

They are surrounded by people, but here against the glass, with lights and air in front of them, feels private. Eames reaches for Arthur’s hand and Arthur gives it willingly.

“About time, Mr Eames,” he says.


End file.
